"He stared deep into the abyss and said
‘This one is for Mama.’"–Nick Cave, "The Lyre of Orpheus"
I hope I’m not the only one who still remembers radio dedications.
Those of you born in the nineties may have never called in to ask the deejay at your favorite radio station to dedicate a love song to your girlfriend. You might never have overheard a radio deejay say:
"Jenny, your boyfriend Keith wants you to know that he loves you very much and he’s thinking of you. He’s sorry he’s been so foolish and he wants you to please call him back. This one’s for you, Jenny."
Then the opening notes of Jeff Buckley’s "Lover, You Should’ve Come Over" come on air while Keith sits by the radio alone in his room, listening. Meanwhile, forty miles away on the Interstate, Jenny listens with a knot tightening in her throat as she drives home from her late shift at the diner.
Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of radio listeners choke up a little themselves, wondering whether Keith and Jenny will talk it out and make up.
Dedications were one of the greatest pleasures of being a radio deejay. And one of the greatest pleasures of being a radio listener. And one of the greatest pleasures of having your songs played on the radio.
Imagine being the writer, the performer of a song–you’re driving down the road on your way to yet another city, the fourteenth in as many days, and you hear the deejay dedicate a song to Jenny. Then the opening notes of YOUR song come ringing through the speakers.
If that doesn’t bring a smile to the face of even the most jet-lagged and burnt-out songwriter, then that songwriter has no soul left to save.
Another place for dedications that’s now falling by the wayside: liner notes, those shout-outs and mini-essays that came folded into CD gatefolds and tucked into record sleeves. There you’d find rock stars thanking their mothers, their husbands, their children, their close friends, their inner circles, even their musical heroes. There’s something wonderful about immortalizing a dedication in print in a physical booklet.
Of course nowadays many albums are bought digitally, no liner notes included.
But there’s still something magic about dedication. There’s a warmth to it, a human touch that’s felt not just by the dedicator and the dedicatee… but also by everyone else who overhears that radio dedication or reads those liner notes.
Who are you singing for?
Dedications don’t have to be public. Alone in your writing room, you can touch your hands to the piano keys and think, "This one’s for you, Keith." You can write and sing for that one person–whether he’s alive, departed, or purely imaginary.
It can be a close friend or somebody you’ve never met. You can tell others about he dedication or you can just sing the song and keep your secrets.
The only requirement is that your intended listener must be somebody you want to communicate with, someone you feel compelled to sing to.
Imagine that person in your mind. The more vividly, the better. Got her in focus? Can you see her expression? Her mannerisms? The whites of her eyes? Good. Now write something that makes her laugh or seethe or smile or cry. Keep her in focus throughout every little decision you make, from word choice to chord changes to the song’s structure. What would she think of this chorus? How would she react to this line? That line?
When you write the song to one specific person, the melody, the chord changes, the lyric–everything is infused with a certain baked-in warmth, a passionate closeness that any audience will be able to sense. And they’ll respond to that warmth.
A song written for everyone connects with no one. Ask yourself: "Who’s this song for?" Pick one person. Write for that one person.
Special thanks to Sonia and Seth.